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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675257">your fault</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreysam/pseuds/dreysam'>dreysam</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/F, Gun Violence, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:47:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreysam/pseuds/dreysam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When she was alone, her thoughts wandered to Madoka.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>your fault</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This came to me while I was writing something else and I had to see it through</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cold metal pressed against skin. A girl's trembling hand held the metal steady to her forearm; the metal absorbed her heat like a vacuum. A feeling, an impulse too immature and underdeveloped to be called a thought, it came and went in an instant—<em> cold, like Madoka. </em> Her trigger finger itched and the metal spit all that heat back out tenfold.</p><p>A crack rang out through her apartment and her forearm felt warm again, warm like her arm was being squeezed and every other sensation was being drowned out except for that warm pressure. Then it was hot. Then it was burning and wet and the pressure was immense. Homura choked back tears and looked at what she had done. Looking always made her nauseous, but she would never be strong enough to save Madoka if she didn’t look.</p><p>How many times now? How many times had she met Madoka in that hallway? How many times had she held the corpse that used to be Madoka? Every single time, she comes back broken and Madoka mends her right back up, makes her think that it’s okay to get attached again, that things will be different this time; and every single time, she fails, and Madoka dies.</p><p>She deserved this. She was weak. She was pathetic. Magic couldn't give her the strength she needed.</p><p>She should've wished for something else, she should've wished to bring Madoka back, or for Walpurgisnacht to have never existed; but she wanted to save Madoka with her own hands. As if she would carry Madoka in her arms at the end of it all and Madoka would look back up at her savior with gratitude in her eyes and say "thank you Homura."</p><p>She wanted to be useful, she wanted to be able to save Madoka the way Madoka saved her, but she wasn't like Madoka. She was weak. Pathetic. Worthless. She thought she could become worth something if she lived for Madoka's sake, but she had failed to save Madoka every single time.</p><p>Crimson dripped onto her bedsheets. Her arm felt like it was being crushed. She tried to move it but it barely responded. She let it go limp next to her and tried to focus through the pain.</p><p>It was her fault Madoka died. It should've been her, she should've been the one that died. She wasn't like Madoka, the world wouldn't miss her if she was gone. Madoka deserved to live, not her; but here she was.</p><p>Madoka used to make her feel warm; life was worth living if it meant getting to see Madoka smile, if it meant getting to walk home with Madoka, getting to laugh with Madoka. Now she looked at Madoka and could only see her future. A person with an expiration date; walking and talking like life would go on, like she wouldn't be dead in a month. All that vigor and passion and kindness—gone. Crushed out, drained from her body, leaving nothing but a cold corpse. <em> Your fault. </em></p><p>She remembered Madoka’s body. She remembered how still it was. Unnaturally still. Sickeningly still. She stared for an eternity, hoping to see the rise and fall of Madoka’s chest, a twitch of a finger; something, anything that said she was still alive. She remembered holding it, praying for Madoka to come back; but Madoka was gone.</p><p>She still waits for the rise and fall of Madoka's chest—just to check; just to make sure. She knows one day she'll check and it won’t move at all.</p><p>The way her arm felt now, was it even a fraction of the pain Madoka felt? Did it come close to the despair Madoka felt when she realized the girl she trusted had been lying this whole time? When she realized, at the end of her short life, that Homura wasn’t strong enough? That all Homura's promises and assurances were hollow?</p><p>No. It didn’t. Madoka had suffered more than anyone ever should. She didn’t harbor a negative thought towards anyone, she was kind and caring and utterly good; but she was the one who died, who watched her friends die, who watched her city destroyed. Her.</p><p>Homura’s shirt was wet with tears. Why couldn’t she do this? Why was she so weak? Why was she so useless? Even when she was in the hospital she never wanted for more, she was content; now she had something she wanted, just one thing, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make it happen.</p><p>“I’m sorry Madoka, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. She cried until her throat hurt and her nose was running and her eyes were red to match the droplets on the bedsheets.</p><p>She took a shaky breath and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the arm that wasn't bleeding. She chuckled through her tears—to have this much trouble with such a low powered round—she really was weak.</p><p>She moved her arm again; it was more responsive this time, but it still felt heavy and weak. It was still just as hot but the pressure had eased slightly. She looked at where the bullet entered, there was a faint purple <em> something </em> inside the hole. Her magic was already working to heal the wound. That was one thing magic was good at—healing physical wounds.</p><p>She would go on. She would put a bandage over the hole, magic would tend to it in the meantime; if Madoka asked about the bandage she would say she got a paper cut, she had done it before. Using her injured arm, she held a glossy black sphere to her clouded soul gem and it glowed purple once more.</p>
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